


Your Choice Begat Mine

by TwilightDeviant



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: During/Post-Days of Future Past, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightDeviant/pseuds/TwilightDeviant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik went away, taking from Charles the things that meant so much to him. But it's what he left that leads to secrecy and embittered thoughts. It's their son that Erik should never know about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Intermingled Within Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Stubbornly ignoring weird movie canon and not calling Pietro “Peter.”
> 
> Also, the title of this first chapter is simply a pretentious way of me saying that the events contained within take place between scenes of movie canon.

The sound of his screaming as he flew through the air and into the opposing staircase rang like a massive church bell throughout the quiet manor. Logan didn't want to hurt the kid, but if Hank kept that up, he was going to.

A voice broke through the roars, however, and Charles descended to break it all up after a few more cheap throws and bouts of abuse. For the man's presence, Logan found himself grateful in one aspect. But he was also given the very quick impression that the Professor had somewhat downplayed his younger self's melancholia.

Of course, the moping barely touched that special note of indifferent frustration the guy managed to sing. Logan could tell that perhaps the Professor's positive influence had rubbed off on him more than he thought. It took a great deal of self-control to try reasoning with Charles instead of knocking him over the head and yelling.

"The Professor I know would never turn his back on someone who lost their path," he stated, watching that irritating form shrink away from him. "Especially someone he loved."

Charles stopped short. He fell back away from the stairs, open robe swaying around him like a curtain. He absently spun the drink in his hand, that unwavering ally which always promised more comfort and succor than any other vice or virtue.

"You know," Charles said, haughtily stalking back towards the stranger in his home, "I think I do remember you now. Yeah, we came to you a long time ago, seeking your help." He grinned, an insolent expression that housed only his roiling discontent. "And I'm going to say to you what you said to us then." Charles seemed to take a cruel satisfaction in telling him to, "Fuck off."

Logan grabbed Charles by front of his ratty robe and shook him angrily, what control he had over his temper slipping. "Listen to me, you little shit," he growled, teeth bared in an infuriated snarl. "I've come a long way, and I've watched a lot of people die, good people, friends." Logan knew he could have easily hit the man. It would have felt a justified compensation for the uncaring, condescending little smirk that was flashed at him. "If you want to wallow in self-pity and do nothing, then you're going to watch the same thing. Do you understand?"

He said nothing and Logan released him, pushing the coddled punk away. "We all have to die sometime," he remarked, a glib response to Logan's confession of what true heartache was.

Charles turned to go— to leave in an angered retreat and escape the world and its nonsense— but when he spun around, he saw the little boy standing at the bottom of the stairs, his small hands clinging to the banister. There was no way to know how much had been overheard.

"What's going on?" the boy asked, curiosity overcoming his natural timidity. "Who's he?"

"Nothing," Charles answered with a heavy sigh, his hand running tiredly down his face, "and no one. Go back upstairs."

The boy let go of the wooden rail, quietly stepping down onto the floor. "We never have people over," he said, gradually approaching with a bubbling interest.

"I said _go upstairs_!" Charles bellowed. His outburst echoed through the vacant halls and the boy jumped, drawing arms in around himself, looking startled and defensive.

Charles swallowed hard in his throat. It was obvious he hated the entire scene and wanted nothing more than to abscond back upstairs himself and disregard it all. He reached out a hand to comfort the child, but Logan pushed past, knocking him aside.

He stooped down to his level and gave the kid a little half-smile, a look he hoped might have come off as kind. Admittedly, he wasn't very good with children. "Hey, David," Logan murmured in greeting. He reached up with an awkward hand to ruffle the kid's hair, but he ducked away.

"You know my name," David observed with bewilderment. He leaned slightly closer to the stranger, his fears abating.

"I know a lot more than that," Logan said, though he was speaking almost exclusively to Charles, the teetering figure of inebriation that stood wavering and anxious. "I know you're his father. You want I should recite the other side of the family tree?"

"David," Charles repeated, a stuttering call as he swiped at his nose and breathed in a sniffling breath, "I said go upstairs." Hank approached and Charles took a hold of his sleeve, pushing him at the boy. "Hank, make him go upstairs." There was a frantic desperation in his voice and demeanor, the ripples of what some might have called a panic attack, but to Charles was simply the acknowledgment of impotence as one more facet in his life came crashing back in his face.

Then Charles fled up the stairs, unwanting of reminders, of time travelers, or of confrontations. He retreated into the physical cocoon of his bedroom, the mental one of oblivion.

Little feet shuffled along the rug as David stepped to Hank's side, grabbing his hand in his own smaller one. "Hank," he asked, burying his face in the man's side, "who is he?" He pointed vaguely in Logan's direction.

"I'm still trying to figure that out," Hank told him. "He's a friend though."

Despite Charles's order, Hank took David outside to the one bit of the estate that he managed to keep maintained himself. The boy ran around with an energy that only the young possessed, splashing the cold water of a fountain and throwing rocks into it, knowing full well he shouldn't.

"Kid seems a lot happier than the David I knew," Logan said in conversation as the two of them paced the encompassing sidewalk.

"Don't let appearances fool you." Hank chuckled, but it was an empty sound devoid of humor. He dragged his feet morosely as they went. "You said you knew the truth— the truth about his other parent? Well, prove it. What's her name?"

Logan snorted, shaking his head slightly. "Trick question, bub. We both know it's Magneto."

Hank's eyebrows rose, oddly impressed. "You seem to take such an oddity in your stride, Mister Logan."

"Just Logan," he asserted. "And I've seen enough lifetimes of weird mutations for this one to rank pretty low on the list." He gave a little shrug of indifference. "Even when the Professor told me, I didn't think much of it. I reacted more to the Magneto part, if we're being open and honest."

"I wish we'd had your calm approach to it ten years ago," Hank sighed. He sounded amused by the memory of it, but his eyes shined with a different expression, revealing a past dread that had nearly been forgotten.

"Not everybody gets to be so lucky."

David ran up to them, breath heaving from him in the cool January air. He said not a word, but held out his hand expectantly. Hank responded in action more than thought, reaching into his pocket to take out several coins. He surrendered them to the boy and David was off again.

"It wasn't always like this," Hank spoke. He watched from the corner of his eye as the little boy scrunched his eyes shut and made a wish before throwing coin after coin into the fountain. "I mean," he said, looking back to Logan, "one of the reasons I initially agreed to give Charles so much of the serum is because he said he wanted to get up and play with his son." He sighed miserably. "How do you deny a guy that?"

"You don't," Logan told him, trying to assuage any shame or guilt.

"Now," Hank said in thought, "days pass where he might not even say a word, to me, to David."

"That's gotta bring the kid down," Logan said, but looking to the boy that challenged fate with a smile and walked along the edge of the fountain, one might never think it did.

"Like I said," Hank reminded him, "he's not as happy as he looks. Sometimes I think he'd do anything for some of Charles's attention."

"Yeah," Logan agreed, "what sorry son of a bitch wouldn't kill to get a little more normality going with their folks?"

"I take it you don't have a good relationship with your father," Hank observed.

"Nah," Logan replied, the very essence of nonchalance, "killed the bastard."

Hank stumbled in surprise, nearly falling if not for his heightened sense of stability. "Oh," was all he said aloud.

"I know there's no statute of limitations for murder," Logan acknowledged jokingly, "but it was over a hundred years ago from this time. You gonna turn me in?"

"Uh," Hank drawled before giving his head a light, clearing shake, "no, no."

"So catch me up here so I don't go running my mouth," Logan said, pointing over at David. "Does the kid know about his father?"

"No." Hank rapidly shook his head, thoroughly denying even the existence of a possibility to such a thing. "No, Charles has always insisted that neither of them ever find out."

"Yeah," Logan snorted, "that don't last forever."

"Oh, god," Hank groaned. His arms dropped heavily to his sides and he looked to the overcast sky above as if asking it for answers or an exemption from fate. "I knew— I always knew it would happen one day. Both of them find out?"

"Yep."

"When?" Hank questioned anxiously. He turned and grabbed either shoulder of Logan's jacket, giving him a pleading shake. "Can I stop it?"

"Sorry, kid," Logan answered. He brought a hand up between Hank's outstretched arms to brush him off. "I only minored in the study of David Xavier's screwed up origins."

"I'll just have to be extra careful then," he said, nodding his head with loyalty-born conviction.

"Yeah," Logan replied, ears perking slightly at the sound of an approaching party. "Good luck with that." He patted Hank on the back and turned to face the shaggy professor, the man who stood upon the cold cement in his bare feet.

"I'll help you get her," Charles conceded. His shoulders quivered with a shaking breath that belied spoken resolve. He turned around to go back inside the darkened house. "And Hank," he called, "take David upstairs like I told you to already."

Logan breathed a sigh, half humor and half exasperation. "Must be so fun playing nanny to that guy."

Hank whistled to draw David's attention and motioned for the boy to follow them back in. "Let's just say the past couple years haven't been the best and leave it at that."

—

As instructed, Logan parked their car on the curb of a side road. Between the small, planted trees that ran along the sidewalk, there was view of the Pentagon. Visibility existed in both directions but the distance negated suspicion.

Pietro, a restless addition to an already unnerved car ride, was the first to step out. He had closed his door and secured a suspicious looking roll of duct tape to his belt before Logan even turned off the engine. The rest followed in a much slower display— especially Charles, who stood in front of his open door, kneeling on the pavement.

"Look here now, darling," he spoke, picking up the small hand of the boy sat in the backseat. Charles gave him a watch before pointing out its function and purpose. "There's a thirty minute timer set. I'm starting it now." He clicked a red button on the side, and a digital countdown began its slow course. "If we aren't back when it gets to zero, I want you to get out of the car and find a police officer or a soldier."

"I want to go with Hank," David cried, his little voice sounding distressed and pleading.

"No," Charles told him, "Hank has a job to do, and it's too risky to take you with him in case he gets caught." At the denial of his request, David looked forlornly to the pale blue carpet lining the floor of the car. But it wasn't the time to indulge such listlessness. Charles put a hand to his chin, tilting his head back up. "Do you understand?"

The boy pulled away slightly and nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And you'll stay in the car?" Charles confirmed.

"Yes, sir," he said again.

"Good boy."

Charles leaned into the car and gave him a kiss on the head. Then he stood, closing the door behind him.

The building before them was daunting in its presence, only outdone by the horrifying thought of what lie beneath: a tortuous reminder of the fall of great men.

Needing some spur of confidence or reason, Charles looked through the window, desiring a smile or encouraging gesture from his little boy. However, David did not see him, sullenly fixated on the watch as he was.

—

Alarms blared mercilessly and their droning siren echoed through the vulnerable ears of the lawn full of people outside. The gathered crowd made the objective of blending easier, even with half of their group soaking wet or still wearing a prison uniform.

The escape from the government facility itself went adequately well, even with the end result, of course, being a freed Erik Lehnsherr. It wasn't all bad news, however. Charles had managed to get one good punch in, a hit that still stung in the split skin of his knuckles.

Charles loosened the tie around throat and doffed his jacket while stepping through the myriad of cars, their drivers so taken with the commotion that the street had almost turned into a parking lot.

Spurred in haste by the happy thought of boundless earth, Erik was one of the first to reach the car, second only after Pietro, who leaned against the door waiting. He shooed the boy out of the way, wanting for himself a seat in the front. When he took a cursory look inside, Erik saw something that took him by surprise.

"You've chosen the wrong car to steal, Charles," he said to the man who had at last caught up. "There's a child inside."

"Get in and shut up," Charles ordered, opening his own door in the back. "It's not the wrong car."

Erik obeyed, though still perplexed. He pulled open the car door, and when he began to sit down, an indistinguishable blur brushed past him. Pietro appeared in the middle of the seat, situated between Logan and Erik himself.

"Buckle up," the boy quickly cautioned, "safety first." Erik looked down and saw the swift clasping of his seatbelt. He gave Pietro a withering glare. The mischievous expression on his face said so much more about messing with Erik's head than it did actual safety.

"Logan, straight to the air terminal," Charles instructed, closing his own door with a quiet bang.

"On it."

The car cranked up, roaring with the impotent ire of a gas peddle being depressed while in park, demanding for the stationary onlookers to remember their roles as motorists. The surrounding cars began moving again, and Logan pulled out to join them.

They took several sharp turns and fled down many narrowed streets to avoid being followed. It seemed almost like an overreaction as anyone who had witnessed them leave was no doubt either still unconscious or scratching their head over the whole matter.

The car slowed to a normal inconspicuous pace once their success was something to be assured of and not hoped for. Of course, with the meager thrill of speeding gone, that was when Pietro began to shuffle like any other hyperactive kid in a car. He slid down in the seat, prodding absently at the rearview mirror until Erik grabbed his wrist and brought it back down to his lap.

"You're recruiting young now," the man said in a vague attempt at passive conversation, keeping his eyes upon the road before them.

Charles huffed in agitation, then replied saying, "The boy is none of your concern."

"I didn't think you were the type to so recklessly endanger children," Erik remarked nevertheless, momentarily disregarding the implied demand for silence.

"And if I had any other option," Charles stated, "I wouldn't be."

Erik turned in his seat, throwing his arm across the back and pushing Pietro further against Logan. He looked at the small boy in the backseat with a curious, roving eye, as though sizing him up. "What's your story?" he asked.

David dipped his head timidly, staring at his lap.

"I told him not to talk to you," Charles informed, almost throwing a protective arm around his son.

"Your power?" Erik continued to question, bound perhaps by genuine curiosity or a longing for any new information after ten years of isolation.

"He doesn't have one," Charles snapped.

"Not yet," came an ominous remark from Logan, though its direct implication remained as nothing more than varied supposition amongst each man.

Erik hummed in his throat, a contemplative sound. "No guarantee of powers but you took him in anyway?" he asked, confused and skeptical.

"Yes," Charles said, troubled by the entire line of questioning, "because not everyone hates humans. Now," he stated, slowly and insistently, "shut up."

There was a slight pause, broken by a quiet, hesitant voice. "You hate me?" David asked, looking up at Erik. "But I don't even know you."

"Don't worry about him," Hank said encouragingly, rubbing the boy's shoulder. "He's wrong."

David continued staring at Erik, his small face looking shamed. "I haven't done anything to you."

"Everyone _shut up_!" Charles yelled, thoroughly upset by the whole proceeding. "Erik turn around!"

David jumped in his seat, startled by the outburst. Hank consoled him as Charles turned to look out the window. After a second, Erik obeyed, twisting back around in his seat. Pietro gratefully sat back upright.

The rest of the ride was silent as the grave.

—

"Pietro," Charles expressed as they stood outside the plane, damp jacket hanging on his arm, "thank you very, very much." He extended a hand of gratitude, which the boy shook with an atypical maturity. Hank stepped away to do a brief walk around of the aircraft as Charles teetered hesitantly on the edge of a request. "I have just," he paused, "one more favor to ask."

"More jailbird friends?" Pietro teased. "Gonna be tough to beat the Pentagon break."

"No, no," Charles assured with a grin and a shake of his head. "I'm not going to put you into anymore harm. I only ask," he looked to the boy at his side, "that you take David with you, let him stay at your house until we get back."

David was of the immediate inclination to be offended. "I wanted to ride in the plane!" he whined. Charles watched his brow fall in a piteous demand for leniency. His freckled cheeks puffed and his eyes grew as big as his quivering lower lip. They had poor effect on Charles, given the gravity of the pending situation.

"David," he remarked, bending down closer to the boy's height, "it's too dangerous where we're going."

"I can wait in the car again," David asserted, rubbing his shoe into the pavement.

"I said no," Charles repeated, keeping a firm tone. "You're with Pietro." He cleared throat, standing back up to look at the teen. "If he'll agree."

Pietro pondered the matter for a second, which was a short time for most, but a small internal conference for him. "Sure," he consented. "Yeah, why not? Kids are cool. I got a sister about his age."

"Thank you," Charles said, feeling a small weight lifted.

"But, uh," Pietro drawled, "maybe some money for a pizza later?" Charles sighed and took out his wallet, giving Pietro a ten dollar bill. "And some burgers on the way back to the house?" he added with an arrogant hope. Charles complied, giving him more. "Kids," Pietro went on to say, looking as though he was merely thinking aloud, "they need entertainment. We might have to go to the movies."

"Yeah!" David agreed with overflowing enthusiasm, at last looking intrigued by the idea of going with the teenager.

Charles gave him a twenty and put his wallet away as an indication of finality. "That should cover any other expense you can think up," he reasoned. Then he leaned back down beside David. "Now you be a good boy for Pietro and his mother. We should be back to get you in a couple of days."

"Yes, sir," David replied obediently.

Holding out his arms, Charles waited for a hug goodbye, but David seemed to completely ignore him once Hank could be seen walking back around. He ran instead to him, wrapping his arms around Hank's waist.

"I'll miss you," he told the man.

"Yeah," Hank said, patting his head, "I'll miss you too, buddy. Now go with Pietro."

"Okay."

He marched back over and took his spot beside Pietro. David tried taking the hand hanging by his side until the teen finally opened his fist and grabbed back.

"And Pietro?" Charles said, feeling the need to voice the matter.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Take it slow," he pleaded.

"What?" Pietro exclaimed in offended shock. He quickly picked David up and rubbed a teasing hand all over the boy's head, tousling his hair and making him giggle. "Speed? With such precious cargo? Never."

David leaned against his ear and conspiratorially muttered, "Let's drive really fast."

"Okay," Pietro whispered in reply.

"No!" Charles objected promptly.

—

Erik watched him over the chessboard in an obvious, unhidden way. It was clear he considered the game not a mere opportunity for sport, as they so often had, but as an excuse to leverage conversation.

As the pieces fell, however, so too did their voices— or at least the courage to verbalize their thoughts did. It felt like a small blessing to Charles, words having dredged up old memories and sensations.

In regards to Erik, it seemed obvious he was biding his time, waiting for the nerve that came to him artificially from his drink. And when it arrived, silence broke down with two simple words of inquiry: "The boy."

Charles shook his head simply. "I believe I said he was no concern of yours, Erik."

"I understand why you took him in," the man said, voicing an unwanted reply.

"No," Charles insisted, "you don't." He took a knight from Erik that he had been sparing out of some form of leniency and hoped the other would focus on the game once more. However, Erik had always proven to be a master at balancing multiple tasks.

"Don't worry," he stated calmly. "I've no ill thoughts that you seek to brainwash the next generation of humans into accepting us."

"All right," Charles said haughtily, trying not to be offended by the implication of such a thing. "I won't worry about that."

"Once we got out of the car, though," Erik continued, tone banal with words that struck, "I could see it plain as day."

Charles could feel an unsettling charge creeping up his neck, an insect that brushed against him with its disturbing legs, a tickling and cautioning knowledge that something should be dreaded. "See what?"

"Oh," Erik remarked casually, "the hair color, the little—" he tapped the end of his nose— "rounded nose, the big eyes that seem to grow when he doesn't get what he wants."

"I'm not sure what you're implying," Charles responded, a forced calmness in his voice that was probably more obvious than it was meant to be.

Erik looked at him with a pity outdone by his skepticism. "He's your son," he said in the simplest of terms.

"No," Charles denied, shaking his head.

"He is," Erik insisted. "Oh," he put a hand to his chest, a gesture of offense, "but don't try to spare my feelings, Charles. Given his age, I'm sure you waited a full week before jumping into bed with the first woman you saw."

"Spare your feelings? _Jumping_ ," Charles paused, a cruel snarl of a laugh bubbling in his throat, "into bed?" He sighed amusedly, coming down from the forced humor he found in the other man's words. "You spin such wonderful jokes."

Erik refused to look at him, callously arranging each metal chess piece into a neat line along either side of the board. "I'm afraid the only real joke is my mistake in ever thinking our time together meant something to you," he argued, returning his gaze, but with a bitter eye.

"A mistake we seem to have shared," Charles agreed.

The worst of mental tortures came from the sincerity of Erik's next words. "I do love you, Charles."

"And I _loved_ you, Erik," Charles answered, putting as much emphasis as he could spit into the past tense of the word. "But you have a funny way of reciprocating."

"You say that," Erik stated, his voice in a casual affair with condescension, "and yet you immediately went out and made yourself a son."

"Perhaps I needed something to help forget you," Charles snapped bitterly. Then he looked back at the board, much more taken with the bound rules of chess than those of errant feelings and wayward arguments.

Once more, they played in silence. The drone of the plane's engines was only occasionally disturbed by the clattering of passive aggression as a chess piece was claimed.

So loath was Erik of the silence, however, it did not take long for him to speak again. It was with a moderately contrite voice that he asked, "What's his name?"

"Who?" Charles questioned, sipping at his drink, eyes fixated upon the board.

"Your son," Erik answered obviously.

"Why do you even care?" Charles chuckled. He found an odd, sort of inexplicable humor in the man's fixation.

"Because he's your son." Erik took a pawn, reaching out to claim it physically, rather than with his power. He held the piece in his hand, as if contemplating it and the role it played. "He could be a powerful mutant one day."

"Or," Charles countered with a sardonic raising of his brow, "if he's lucky in this future we're headed towards, he'll be a normal human."

"What's his name?" the man asked once more.

There was silence. It was a brief moment in which Charles filled a scale— each side teetering, the negative against the positive— in why he should give the man such privileged information. He relented, knowing it would be considered his right to withhold, but also thinking the petty act as one of suspicion. He dared not cast such thoughts upon the fragile situation.

"David."

Erik looked a little besotted. "David." He tried the name out as though it were unique and unheard of. In his mind, it was deconstructed from past assignments and rebuilt only in reverence to the boy.

"But as I've said," Charles continued, "he's of no importance to you." He cleared his throat with an overly exaggerated cough. "So none of this really matters, and I'd much rather not talk about it." Drinking down what remained in his glass, Charles dropped it on the table before reaching for the bottle to refill it.

"You can't blame me for showing an interest in the boy," Erik reasoned.

"No," Charles said, "but I can ask you not to voice it." He avoided eye contact in an obvious way, pouring his drink slower than necessary, watching as the drops decanted.

Erik placed his hand over Charles's and took the bottle from him. He made a show of pouring some into his own glass, but it was evident from the way he placed the bottle on the shelf behind him that he was cutting Charles off.

"Why are you so defensive?"

"I have my reasons, Erik," he was told. "Don't pretend they aren't obvious. You—" Charles paused, taking a deep breath and running a weary hand down his face, pulling at tired skin and settling over his mouth before falling back down altogether. "You're a fugitive, a murderer, pushing for the extinction of a species that currently includes my son."

"You speak as though I would ever cause him harm," Erik objected, looking angry in his offense.

Charles shouted his reply, saying, "Every man is someone's son, Erik!"

" _Hey_!"

They looked to the other side of the cabin, Erik turning in his seat, and saw Logan in his chair, seeming displeased. He opened only one eye, but it held the irate potency of both. "You two bickering idiots wanna shut the hell up?" he groused. "Some of us are trying to get some sleep over here."

"Our apologies," Charles said, waving a repentant hand of dismissal.

"Chess is supposed to be a quiet game anyway," Logan continued, shuffling down in his seat as he tried to get comfortable. "Leave it to the two of you to screw that up."

"I believe you said you were going to sleep," Erik reminded crossly.

Logan extended a bone claw, just one, from the middle of his right hand. Then he dropped it and tried to sleep.

The rest of the chess match was much more quiet. Nothing substantial was spoken of and what was remained grounded in hushed tones. Charles didn't remember falling asleep, but then, as inebriated as he usually found himself, the concept wasn't exactly novel. The only real surprise was the stiff blanket draped across him when he woke up.

—

When all was said and done, when Erik had once more absconded to destinations and designs unknown, Charles felt himself a proper hero when David couldn't stop going on about the heroic victory that he had seen on the television. It felt good, Charles thought, to have gained something amidst the sea of lost opportunities and loved ones.


	2. When Nothing Is Said or Done

_One Year Later_

—

It was the warmest weather an early March day would allow in New York. The contrast from recent temperatures had caused a restlessness in the small student body Charles had acquired. Ever the pushover, he hadn't the heart to deny them the opportunity for outdoor entertainment, to enjoy activities whose pleasures had almost been forgotten without the presence of coat or scarf.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

Charles watched, perched upon the great stone balcony, as Pietro pushed David around in a playful manner on the still brown and lifeless grass below.

"No, you're not," Pietro teased.

"I am, promise!" David protested, taking the older boy's pestering as sincerity. "I want to fly."

Pietro hummed in his throat, an exaggerated drone of a noise, as he 'thought' the matter over. "Okay, go!" he exclaimed suddenly.

David pitched his arms up, and Pietro grabbed him, throwing the boy into the air. Gravity quickly began dragging him back down and Pietro disappeared completely. Then David stopped, seemingly suspended. There was a slight, almost imperceivable blur running back and forth beneath him, continuously pushing him up. To David, however, who kept his arms out flat and his eyes before him, he appeared to simply be floating there.

Charles smiled to hear the lightheartedness of David's laughter, a sound that a year ago had been on the tragic verge of being locked away forever.

Then came a sight that Charles passively observed, a movement in his vision that he dismissed to be the abusive wind whipping through trees in the distance. But when intuition had him turn and investigate, he saw standing there a form whose presence his mind had built up as an embodiment of inevitable dread.

"Erik!"

Charles gestured at once across the gathering of students nearby, immobilizing any who fell beneath the wave of his hand. Pietro materialized beneath David again, holding the boy in place. "What are you doing here?" Charles demanded, apprehension and displeasure welded into his words.

"Hello, Charles," Erik spoke.

To his credit, the man wore casual clothes, obviously not having arrived with any violent or war driven objective. But that was as much as Charles could decipher of his intentions, for Erik still wore a helmet firmly upon his head. It was a new one, of course, but no less ostentatious than its predecessors. The accompaniment of the oppressive headgear as good as negated the attempt to wear normal clothing at all. It made obvious the fact that he had still come with disagreeable thoughts in his mind.

"You could have given the students an attack at the sight of you," Charles argued, voicing his clear discontent at the other's sudden appearance.

"Don't be so dramatic," Erik insisted. He wouldn't look directly at Charles and that was most irritating.

Again, Charles asked, " _Why_ are you here?"

Erik stood silently, a fixed statue that looked out upon the grounds as though it had been intentionally placed there as decoration. After a moment, when it seemed he could be bothered to devote himself to an answer, he gestured out, pointing to the motionless forms David and Pietro. His voice was stern and unwavering when he spoke his intent, saying, "I'm here to see my son."

"He's not your son," Charles responded at once.

"He is," Erik maintained.

Charles did not need the press of fingers against his neck or wrist to know that his pulse had increased. He did not need it pointed out that his breath had become quick and erratic. He was aware of his tells, was intimate with them in a way he knew Erik shared. "There's no way you could know that," Charles contested. His fists balled anxiously in his lap, and the sight of it brought a smirk to Erik's face, knowing he was on the right track.

"I've thought things through," the man told him proudly, "done the calculations."

"Who tipped you off?" Charles asked, his question a muttered grief that ended with a sigh. "Hank, Logan?"

"No," Erik replied, "he told me himself actually."

"Impossible," Charles argued, "he doesn't even know." His mind was at once alight, ruminating upon the brief hour the two had been in contact, wondering when such a thing could have happened and why he had been unable to stop it.

"He doesn't know he knows," Erik continued, explaining the matter with a calm flick of his hand. "Which is why he thought nothing of mentioning it to me."

"You still have no reason to be here. You think, what?" Charles laughed, a bitter sound of wretched and desperate contempt. "I'll- I'll let you take him?"

Erik said nothing for a moment. He looked again at the two boys in their unmoving play, contemplating the blissful picture it presented. There was an absence of his former surety when he turned his gaze back to Charles, as though perhaps he had a shame for his selfishness. "I would like to introduce myself," Erik assured him. "That's all."

"You've met already," he responded curtly.

"Briefly, Charles, too briefly."

Shaking his head, Charles shot him down. "No, Erik."

"Don't flatter yourself," Erik asserted. He breathed deep, a mechanism of self-control, trying to remember how to navigate conversation in which things didn't go his way. "He may be staying here, but you have no right to him."

"He's my son!" Charles shouted, livid in his offense.

Erik stopped. A look of utter puzzlement rushed onto his face. It was a disarming expression, even thrown between the menacing frame of his helmet as it was. After several seconds of careful contemplation, he slowly uttered, "No, he isn't."

Charles quickly caught the other's bewilderment. He opened his mouth, but speech was slow in following. When it came, it was with a stuttering start. "What are you talking about?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Erik countered, looking at him strangely.

"Erik," Charles asked, slowly building a more coherent and edifying question, "wh- whom are you referring to?"

"The boy," he clarified, "Pietro. When he broke me out of prison, he said something— something that made me think. I've been waiting for a chance to return so that I might speak with him."

"Pietro," Charles thought aloud, "is your son?"

Erik nodded. "I'm fairly certain he is, yes." He walked to the front of Charles's chair, staring him down with an expression that might have been entreating if not for the stern and lowered brow. "Now it's your turn to tell me what it was you meant," he ordered.

Charles laughed with abandon. He found strange humor in the slip, and it mixed uneasily with a sense of self-depreciation. "So much effort and I've practically outed myself." He shook his head, and when he spoke again, there was an unfitting smile upon his face. "No, Erik, I'm not telling you a damn thing."

The man straightened his shoulders, nodding his head with a mechanical motion. "Then I'll find someone who will," he said, stepping away. "Hank, your friend Logan, they could help me, yes?"

"Good luck with Logan," Charles uttered reproachfully. "He disappeared after that last fight. Either you managed to kill an immortal man whose only crime was trying to save us all… or his mind absconded back to the future. And Hank," he chuckled, "well you tried to kill him too, didn't you? I'm sure he'll be most helpful."

Charles felt the beginnings of tremors throughout his chair as it shook around him. "Tell me, Charles," Erik commanded.

"Your threats do not now, nor will they ever, carry any weight against me," Charles told him. Even with the loud screech of metal distorting, it was obvious that no real damage was being dealt, to himself or the chair. "I'm sorry, but I know you only seem to hurt me incidentally, frequent as that may be."

Metal popped back into place as minor dents of a cosmetic nature were corrected. "Then you leave me no choice," Erik stated. He took a deep breath then kneeled upon the stone before Charles, prostrating himself. "Tell me… please."

"No," Charles said, though that time he was almost reluctant to do so.

"You might as well have already," Erik contended. "Your confirmation is nothing but a mere technicality."

Charles stubbornly shook his head. "I need your doubt," he spoke. His words were weak, near pleading, but he kept a small degree firmness to them.

There was a heavy silence. The air became oppressive despite its crisp chill and unbroken breeze. Erik's gaze weighed a ton as it studied his face, searching for an otherwise muted answer. Charles knew the battle was slipping away from him. He was a poor rival when the game was one of deception and lies.

Erik saw what he was looking for. Any doubt he wouldn't was sheer baseless hope on Charles's part. "David is my son," he announced with a measure of confidence.

"No," Charles told him simply.

" _Our_ son," he insisted.

"He isn't," Charles objected, voice forced and frail.

"Why won't you tell me?" Erik demanded, and he was himself of a different brand of groping desperation.

"There is nothing to tell."

"Charles!" Erik shouted his frustration. The outburst might have startled Charles if he hadn't been so otherwise distracted in thought. Erik stood again, though he was no more than a tower of ineffective intimidation. "I have the right—"

"You have no right!" Charles exclaimed, a fuming declaration of enduring fact. "No right at all. Just as you've no right to Pietro." He scoffed. There was a righteous feeling of contempt swelling inside of him. "They are _far_ better off without you, my friend."

Erik had the innate ability to pick and choose what he wanted from a conversation. All else he could turn a deaf ear to. With this gift, he had led himself to the edge of fact and believed that he had not wandered blindly to his conviction. "How did it happen?" he asked.

"It's as you said before," Charles replied. And though he spoke with utmost composure and strength, he would not suffer meeting the other's gaze as it bore into him. "I met a lovely woman— Moira, actually. I know your feelings for her, so I kept quiet about it before. We- we had an evening of romance. And nine months later…"

"Oh, Charles," Erik laughed haughtily. "You really are the worst liar without your powers."

"I will tell you a thousand lies if I have to," said Charles, at last looking at the man, impressing upon him his resolve.

"And I will wait through each one until you decide to tell me the truth."

There was a determination in Erik's expression so intense that Charles knew it must have rivaled his own stubbornness. And though he did not lack empathy in the matter, Charles glared at him without reserve, every ounce of animosity he had for the man burning between them like a tangible thing.

Then he let it go, dropping to the ground and withering away without the support of Charles's ire to sustain it.

He sighed, waving his hand in a wide sweep. The students resumed their jovial movement. Pietro disappeared again and David continued in his mimic of flight.

Erik looked about them with a cautious eye. "Aren't you worried—"

"I altered their perception," Charles informed him, and the answer sounded like a tired thing, trodden in its defeat. "They can't see you. But I did feel that Pietro's arms were about to break if he held the boy up any longer."

As a testament to that observation, Pietro did indeed stop almost immediately. He caught David and let him drop down before rubbing his fatigued and aching arms.

Erik approached the edge of the balcony, his purpose obvious as he headed for the boys.

"Erik, no," Charles commanded.

"You can't stop me, Charles," he replied uncaringly, his thoughts leading to only one destination.

"No," Charles agreed, "but I would like a word with you first… in my study."

Erik stopped short. He seemed displeased but, luckily, he could also see reason at times— when he wanted to. There came a small nod of consent. "Lead the way," he conceded.

Charles's chair whirred as he spun it around, directing them inside the manor. Any children they passed made Erik rather self-conscious. All his arrogant words aside, it seemed he didn't want any run-ins with Charles's students, if for no other reason than the inconvenience it would cause. They remained calm, however, indeed under a telepathic spell.

A year ago, Charles would have been most embarrassed by the cluttered state of his office. A year ago, it couldn't even have been called such. But then, a year ago Charles had also been in an inebriated state of despondence, so the odds that he would have even considered getting embarrassed were rather minimal. There had been much time to fix all of that, however, and fix it he had. Charles housed himself once more inside of a bookish study— the sort of tidy, pretentious space that Erik took delight in mocking.

Charles entered first, Erik behind him, shutting the door with a wave of his hand. For a man who could give such verbose speeches and argue until the sun itself grew tired and went to bed, Erik could still be rendered silent in a moment of discomfort. He paced the office, trying to allow Charles to work up the nerve to confess to him. However, he had only so much patience for peace.

"You look good, Charles," Erik stated, though he wasn't even glancing in his direction. He gazed instead through the windows and the bright outside. "Very good, much better now that you've trimmed your hair."

"Don't," was all Charles said in reply, a brief warning against intimacy. He had in him no current want to walk such a path of conversation.

There was another moment of silence, a moment of reluctance in which time was a hiding place. But Charles could not hide forever, as much as he may have wanted to. He sighed heavily before saying, "What is it you want to know?"

"Everything," Erik told him. "Everything. But if you tell me nothing more than that David is my son, I will be content." He sounded earnest, but Charles could not help laughing at him.

"No, you won't," he mocked.

"I need to know, Charles," Erik said, nearly begged.

"I say you will not be content because he is nearly eleven now and still shows no sign of having a mutation. Not unless you include heterochromia, which I doubt you do. He has no powers, Erik." If Charles took cruel delight in telling the man that, it was his own business and not to be judged by anyone else.

"He will though," Erik insisted, compelled by vanity. "With the two of us as his fathers, I—"

"You see!" Charles interrupted, cackling. "What if he never gets them? What if he's _human_ , Erik?"

"I… I would…"

He didn't seem to have an immediate answer, and so Charles put him out of the misery of its search. "Be grateful you still have one mutant child in Pietro?" he asked. "I have dozens of justifiable reasons to keep him from you. Do not question or criticize any decisions I have made thus far, my friend."

A silence descended and Charles was of a mindset to let it grow. He knew he was perhaps being unjustly callous, but he felt himself still reeling from his forced disclosure of the matter. It was not his decision to inform the man, and he did not enjoy telling him either. So many years of trying to avoid one simple fate, wasted.

Erik would not drop his interest though. Charles would have been surprised if he did. With a small degree of hesitancy, he said, "Tell me what happened. When did you find out?"

"It wasn't before you left, if that's what you're wondering." Charles shook his head, clearing it a little. "No, I'm sure I would have joyfully told you, so in love was I then." He exhaled, and it felt as though each pause managed to take small increments of enmity from him. There was always a certain ease to letting go of past woes, especially ones he had made a tentative peace with. "I received surgery in a hospital in Florida. When I awoke, my doctor was beside me. He told me… a splinter of chipped bone had grazed my small intestine. And in his efforts to repair that damage, he saw something else, something quite out of place." Charles halted again and shrugged his shoulders as he wrapped up, saying, "I wiped his mind and returned home with the boys. Thus began the first stage of my seclusion."

Erik listened to him intently, nodding along as Charles went, reflecting on his short narrative. But when he had finished, there returned that pendulating coarseness for which the man was so well known. "You should have let me know," he said.

"Yes, I agree," Charles stated sarcastically. "With everything on my mind at the time— the loss of my legs, a school to open, a child…" His voice quit him without warning, momentarily paralyzed by past emotion. He banged his fist lightly on the arm of his chair and cleared his throat. "A child to think of— I should have dropped it all to find a man who didn't want to be found."

"You could have thought of something," Erik insisted. He did not seem angry over the lack of effort Charles had put forth, but he didn't look woefully upset about it either. Sometimes the man was an open book, other times he was a vault. The most Charles could discern was that he simply appeared to be disappointed over having been left out. It would suit him to have such a reaction, especially if it left him with the option of blaming someone besides himself.

"Or I could have spared myself one monstrous headache and dealt only with the problems before me. Which is what I did," Charles said, sighing loudly and with every bit of frustration the situation had given him over the years. "And after he was born, well, let's just say that it's far from pleasant to watch a news report of your seven-month-old's father being arrested for shooting the president."

"You know better now," Erik objected.

"But not then I didn't."

It was obvious from Erik's continuous bouts of silence that navigating through their conversation was a hardship for him. He knew it to be a minefield, with a treachery only increased by his own short tempered involvement. At any moment he could say or do something that put Charles off his flow. So again and again he would pause, carefully considering his next line of questioning.

"What is he like?" he finally asked.

Charles snorted. "Why do you care?"

"He's my son," Erik heatedly reminded him.

"No, he's _my son_!" Charles shouted. "Mine!"

Erik was taken aback by the unbound ferocity of his outburst, so suddenly did it attack. Then he averted his gaze, giving Charles a moment to bring himself back together.

When Charles did rebuild himself to a figure of cool restraint, he knew there was a piece missing. There was no smile or even passivity to his face. Instead he felt a heavy pull, a weight that dragged his lips into frowning. Upon his bones gravity seemed doubled and his shoulders slumped with a long existent weariness. "If I'm being honest," he admitted, slowly, sadly, "I don't know much, not in regards to his likes or- or dislikes. He won't let me in unless I read his mind. I fear he may hate me."

"That's not possible," Erik contested. The very idea that it could be seemed to offend him personally.

"It is though," Charles sullenly argued. "It really is. I," he exhaled, "ignored him… for years. It was a selfish time for me that I'd take back if I could. Like mother, like son, I suppose." Charles laughed, just once, a self-indulgent hum for levity's sake that only sounded all the more forlorn. "He bonded with Hank instead, whose support these past years has been so very, very crucial. But David and me," he shook his head, "no, I think I've missed my chance."

"It's never too late," Erik assured, though it was evident that the lie was as much for himself and his own private benefit as it was for its intended.

Charles sniffed and rubbed at his watering eyes with the palm of his hand. Then he cleared his throat purposefully. "I," he stammered, "I don't want to talk about him anymore. If you have questions about Pietro, though, I will answer them as best I can."

There was a gallant defiance alight in Erik's eyes, opposition born from compassion. His face was an open book of sympathy. He approached Charles where he sat beside his desk. His hand reached out between them, marching forward in a meticulously measured progression.

"No," Charles begged.

Erik ignored his request. He leaned over him, tenderly stroking the side of his face with a gentle brush. His thumb swept over Charles's cheek, dancing upon a stage of pale skin and faded freckles. It traced the outline of soft cheekbones, rose higher to caress the lower lid of a closed eye— the skin of which was so much darker and tired than the world had right to have made it, than he had right. Charles put up no fight at all, leaning against the hand, basking in its touch like a cat in sunlight. He always loved the calm before the storm, and with Erik the cause for uncertainty would never lie in their presence, but their duration.

"He will love you," the man ensured with a whisper, his calm tone offset by the firm conviction with which he said it.

In a less cynical time, Charles might have fallen to the man's persuasion. "I fear he won't." To believe otherwise felt like magic misplaced in a time of science. Erik moved his thumb over his brow, resting it upon the side of his face, and Charles opened his eyes to the filtered sunlight again. "I've been trying for over a year," he lamented, "making such little progress."

Erik watched his face with unguarded tenderness. Then he knelt down, leaning his head forward. In a brief second of unease, Charles thought he was after a kiss, and he was more than ready to push him away if he tried. It was not the time and he was not of the temperament for such things. But Erik only dropped his head down, resting it against Charles's chest in a way that was more for selfish indulgence than a comfort, evidenced by how unpleasantly bent over he was.

"I am sorry," he murmured sadly, and his words caught in the thick wool of Charles's sweater.

Charles brought his hand up— forgoing stubborn appearances in a moment where fond desire was king— and rested it against the other's back, rubbing lightly.

"You need not apologize," he told Erik kindly. "This time… it isn't your fault."

Charles knew that Erik felt the need to comfort him more than he actually needed to be comforted, and so they did not move but for a gentle touch.

When his wandering hand moved higher, beginning a new track, Charles's fingers tenderly massaged the skin of Erik's neck until his knuckles bumped against the helmet. "Take this off," he chided.

"I can't," Erik replied.

"Take it off."

"You could wipe my memories," the man pointed out, "erase what I've learned."

"No," Charles denied, giving his head a little shake, knowing futility and defeat when he saw it. "You figured it out fair and square through my own bumbling mistake. To take that would be unsportsmanlike."

Slowly, with every expectation that he would be opposed, Charles put his hands on either side of the helmet and gently removed it. Erik didn't stop him, merely lifted his head in compliance.

He sat the insulting helmet upon his desk and Erik resumed leaning against him. It felt nice, Charles thought, stroking the soft, short hair with his fingers, unmindful if he furthered a mess that the helmet had already patterned. After a moment, Erik's hand reached up. He placed it upon the flat expanse of Charles's stomach, spreading out his fingers.

"What are you doing?" Charles questioned, looking down at the man and the small display of intensity that could be seen in his face.

"I'm imagining," Erik told him, incredibly pensive over the matter.

"Don't imagine that," Charles commanded, almost scolding. "It was a horrible sight."

Ever one to do the exact opposite of what was asked, Erik ignored him. He moved his hand in small, concise movements. His eyes closed in a concentration not often seen outside of battlefields or terrible exhibitions of power.

To say he tired of his imaginings would have been untrue, but after a moment, he did compartmentalize his thoughts and spoke on another subject, requesting, "Tell me about Pietro."

"Well," Charles began, almost as official as he would have been when speaking with any standard parent, "he's been here for seven months now. Despite what a pain he can be, I was still very grateful for his help that day, very impressed. I thought he'd be a great candidate for the school." The satisfaction of the man in his lap was near tangible and of a contradicting nature in which smug paternal arrogance both calmed and ruffled him with pride, leaving squared shoulders and a straighter back. "I traveled to D.C. again, spoke with his mother. She told me," he paused for a second, hesitating in a limbo regarding disclosed confidentiality and its consequences. "She told me that she's his adoptive mother, not biological. Pietro doesn't know."

Erik stilled, ever so slightly, then nodded his head, letting Charles know he understood his desire to preserve secrecy.

"I was told his real mother came to America in fear many years ago. She'd run from the father, a monster, she claimed." It did not go unnoticed by Charles that Erik had stopped completely, perhaps even to the point of holding his breath, no doubt anxious or troubled. "I'm rather surprised I didn't think of you sooner," Charles said, and though he meant it as a good-natured jest, it was received as anything but.

"Charles," Erik implored quietly, "please. I prefer not to think about that part of my life." He stopped, and though Charles knew what he would say next, he also wanted him to voice it aloud. After a moment he did, if only to give up midway through. "What happened to…"

"She died."

Erik's hand stopped in its press against Charles's abdomen. He clutched the soft fabric in a tight fist, an action unnoticed under the overpowering dominion of internal thought. Charles placed his own pacifying hand over it and the harshness of the grip receded.

"I'm sorry," Charles spoke. Erik shook his head in a clearing, dismissive way. His breathing resumed its routine tempo. His hand folded out flat again, pushing harder, as though trying to feel life against it. "The woman I spoke with said that much of what she'd learned in her brief acquaintance with the mother was kept secret from Pietro. The only reason she even mentioned your abilities to him was so that he would feel a little less out of place with his own powers." Charles sighed, long and heavy, clearing the air of fouler memories. "He's adjusted well here. An annoyance, to be sure, but an endearing one." He hesitated briefly, then shared, "David loves him, he does. Sometimes I think even more so than he loves Hank."

"That's good," Erik remarked, saying it in a way that one might think it was the end result of a long constructed plan.

"I thought they simply clicked," Charles admitted, "eager playmates. In a hundred years, I'd have never credited the cause to their being brothers."

"And yet you would deny them knowledge of their relationship," Erik spoke, displeased and judgmental.

"I care, first and foremost, over the mental impact such knowledge could have," Charles replied. "They act like brothers already. Telling them would change nothing."

Grateful when no further words of argument were voiced, Charles took a deep breath, contemplating further matters, weighing the risk of aggression.

"There's one other thing you should know," he began, most unsure of himself but finding it too late to stop. Erik could obsess upon secrets like a dog with a bone. "It took Pietro a very long time to confess this to me, so I want you to respect my breech of trust and not mention it to him unless he does first."

"What is it?" Erik asked, but Charles would not continue until he had agreed to play ignorant on the matter.

Precisely, haltingly Charles informed him that, "He has a sister, Wanda… a twin sister."

Erik jerked up at once, pushing against Charles and quickly sitting back on his heels. He stared him in the face, looking suddenly very serious and in no mood for verbal delays. "Where is she?" he questioned.

"She's not here," Charles answered, making himself appear calm and sincere. "Despite how much I would like her to be, she's not."

"Where is she?" Erik repeated. The question had already begun to lose its beseeching tone, replaced instead with one of command.

"The only reason Pietro admitted it to me at all was so that I could find her and look into helping her," Charles continued, allowing himself the delusion that a levelheaded conversation was taking place.

Erik stood, under some false impression that height or looming anger could intimidate him. "Where is she, Charles?"

Though it was a typical and most infuriating response to come from the man before him, Charles could understand his sense of urgency. Erik may have been new to parenting, but a parent he was nonetheless. Calmly, Charles told him, "She's in an institution, Erik."

The satisfaction of a definitive answer did not seem to quell Erik's anger. If anything, Charles's response had fed it. Few other things could have been expected from such a revelation, however, and Charles knew that.

"Where?" Erik demanded.

"I can't tell you," Charles stated, and he took special care to maintain his composure. The absolute last thing needed in that moment was another shouting match.

"Why?"

"Because," he explained, very succinct, "I fear you may do something rash, like breaking her out, for instance."

"That's none of your concern," Erik snapped. But Charles knew that it was, as much as he knew that liberating Wanda was the immediate thought harbored in the other's head. He didn't even need his power to discern such an obvious fact.

"It is very much my concern. She has powers, Erik, strong, wild abilities." He paused in his speech, feeling as though he were in class, trying to explain a tricky subject to a troubled student. "She _needs_ to be there, for now."

Erik growled, turning his back. "At the mercy of humans," he hissed, "their experimentations?"

"At the mercy of myself, Erik." Though slight, the man turned an eye back to him. "I'm overseeing her care. It may be a misuse of my power, but I ensure that none of her caretakers ever have it in their mind to hurt her or allow entrance to anyone that would." His assurance did little, if anything, to put the other's mind at ease, but Erik did turn back around to face him, shoulders still raised high and rigid in his ire. "I visit her once a week. We're making progress."

Still the man argued, "You mean to suppress her abilities."

"Erik!" Charles yelled. It was only with an unfortunate understanding of how badly their arguments could escalate that he, almost reluctantly, dragged himself back under control. "She needs this," he told him, slowly, imploring. "I am teaching her control, the same way I helped you so long ago." He cast his eyes, large and beseeching, upon the other, his underhanded advantage gained through past familiarity. "I wish only what's best for her, to have her here one day. Knowing that she is your daughter… Well, now I feel a whole other layer of protection towards her."

"I would like to speak with Pietro now."

Charles was cautious to hear such an abrupt change of subject. He knew better than to believe Erik would ever drop a matter so fast, not one that he had lost. A plan was already formulating behind his eyes, laid out clearly like a blueprint. Charles would not deny him his futilities, but he would be more careful in the future with any matter involving the girl.

"First you need to calm down," Charles said. "Sit."

He pointed to a chair beside his desk. After a moment Erik obeyed, sitting straight and proper, no longer residing in the mindset of ease that had so recently had him resting over Charles's lap.

"I'm sure this has been quite a shock for you," Charles stated. His tone was one of amusement, but it was more the sort of imposed levity in an awkward situation than one of genuine delight. "Here you come, parading into my school, hoping to meet with your son. Then you learn of two more children you didn't even know of. I hope we needn't worry about anymore turning up," he jested.

"No," Erik said, halting in a distracted way that revealed he was thinking the matter through in real time. "No, there shouldn't be. Not that I can think of."

"You're right when you say I can't stop you from talking to Pietro," Charles affirmed, serious once more. "But I want you to understand what a shock this might be to him. If you insist on upsetting the world as he knows it, you must do so kindly, calmly."

Erik nodded solemnly. "And when may I speak with David?"

"Never," Charles answered, turning most strict. "That I do have a say in. Never, Erik."

"He's my son," Erik argued.

"Then love him," Charles pleaded. "Understand that his life has been difficult enough already. Don't add to it by letting him know his father is a terrorist who hates humans. Especially when he may be one."

"He will be old enough to understand one day," Erik tried to reason.

"If such a day ever truly comes," Charles told him, "I hope you would be a good enough father to let it pass by." He gave Erik a moment to consider his small request, to commit it to memory, then he put his fingers to his temple. "I'll call Pietro now, if you're ready."

"Do it," he stated simply, giving a slight nod of his head.

It took what must have been no more than two seconds for Pietro to appear. The door slammed open with a forcefulness born more from haste than actual strength. When he came to a stop in the middle of the room, he was holding an excited David in his arms, head held firmly to his chest. The two boys ceased in their revelry the second they laid eyes on Erik.

"What's he doing here?" Pietro asked suspiciously. He readjusted the boy in his arms, holding him closer in a way that could have been taken as incidental from the heavy weight or as purposeful and protective.

Charles felt his breath catch in his throat. His chest ached with a weight of pure anxiety. He looked between each occupant in the room before speaking to Pietro in a way that he felt was closer to yelling than he meant for it to be. "Why did you bring David?"

"Sorry," Pietro responded, looking affronted but standing his ground, "didn't know it was invite only. What's he doing here?" he questioned again.

"David, darling," Charles spoke, not purposefully ignoring Pietro's inquiry, but not addressing it either, "I need you to go back outside and play."

Pietro sat the boy down, but instead of David leaving as requested, he approached Erik with purpose.

"You're the bad man," he said.

"I'm not," Erik replied, in no way speaking down to the boy like the child that he was. He kept his head up high and David did the same. "You'll understand when you're older."

"You hate humans," David remarked, sounding judgmental.

"I could never hate you," Erik promised, and there was affection in his voice.

David said nothing. He took a step closer, then he closed his eyes and exhaled before opening them wide, staring sharply at Erik.

Charles watched the boy, unnerved by the display. "David," he questioned uneasily, "what are you doing?"

Suddenly Erik released a tormented cry. He held twitching hands to his head as if in pain, doubling over in his chair.

"What are you doing?" Charles shouted, but it was a question whose answer he was disastrously aware of. "Stop! Get out of there."

He put his fingers to his head, watching the physical concentration on David's face, the intense but vacant stare of a blue eye beside its mismatched twin of green. Charles quickly felt the third presence in Erik's mind, searching aimlessly, heedless of damage caused. He couldn't pry the boy out.

"Pietro," Charles ordered distractedly, "take him away."

The aggressive presence retracted. David lowered his eyes and left him alone in Erik's mind, either satisfied or finally brought back by Charles's voice.

"You're my father," David stated bluntly, still looking at Erik but regarding him with the passive curiosity of a scientist upon a rat, deliberating on the possibility of potential.

Erik fell heavily against the arm of his chair. "Yes," he groaned in response, still in pain with head aching. He looked like an unfortunate torture victim whose bindings had been cut loose, leaving him to fall boneless and exhausted.

"No," Charles objected, pointless as it may have been, "he isn't. Pietro, take him outside."

Pietro stepped forward, looking confused and shaken by the episode that had taken place before him. He grabbed David's hand and led him out, closing the door behind them.

Erik slumped forward with a moan, relinquishing his last bit of composure, feeling no need to maintain a façade of strength in front of only Charles. "You said he had no powers," he muttered, taking deep breaths as Charles moved his wheelchair around the desk.

Bending forward as much as he could, Charles put his hands against the other's head. Erik leaned into them as if they were a cool rag against a fever. The damage was minimal, more physical anguish than psychological. Charles fixed what lay within his realm of skill, realigning broken thoughts and memories. Anything more would have to fade like any other unpleasant headache.

"I didn't know," he whispered soothingly, apologetically. He rubbed Erik's head all over, petting and calming. "I didn't know." Seeking more, Erik moved forward, resting his head as best he could against Charles's shoulder.

There was a purposeful silence as the telepath went about his mental work, but when the distorted pain and blurred thoughts ebbed, so too did the quiet. "Your son lacks a certain finesse, Charles," Erik murmured against him, lips catching on his sweater.

"My son?" Charles laughed mockingly. "Suddenly he's _my_ son."

"The telepath?" Erik pointed out. "Yes."

"And yet it's you and your brood who typically seem to be lacking in control," Charles countered. He had mostly finished any mending by then, but continued weaving his fingers through the other's shortened hair out of odd indulgence. "Barging through a mind like a wrecking ball feels like all the proof of paternity we could ever need." He hit Erik lightly on the head, ordering him to, "Stop smiling."

"You can't even see me," he remarked.

"No," Charles said, "but I know you."

The arrogant grin could almost be felt, its presence biting through clothing, pressing against bare skin. "He has powers," Erik stated, and there was a great mirth that danced corruptly in those three simple words.

"He does," Charles agreed, still reeling from the news of it. "But he was also fine the way he was before. This changes nothing."

Erik scoffed. "You're telling me to not be proud of my son."

"I'm telling you to be proud for the right reasons. You still know nothing about who he is," Charles debated tiredly, "and yet suddenly you seem to love him."

"I already loved him," Erik confessed, and if there was truth in that alone, it was a small blessing in Charles's favor. "I loved him when he was only your son. I loved him more after discovering he was mine as well."

"And now you love him entirely," Charles surmised, feeling slightly bitter.

"Yes," Erik confirmed.

"Now that he's a mutant," he clarified cynically.

"He's perfect." There was an ill tasting pride in his words, difficult for Charles to swallow without anger.

"Well," he muttered, "thank goodness such a decision was made easier for you. I would hate having to see you struggle through loving a human."

"I love him," Erik claimed with a sigh, somehow identifying himself as the insulted party. "Why should anything else matter? Let me speak with him."

"No."

"He knows now, Charles. There's no point in hiding it."

"Perhaps you shouldn't have been thinking it so loudly," Charles reprimanded, resolute in his stance that knowledge on both sides did not merit an acknowledgement or introduction.

Erik braced his hands against the armrests of his chair and sat up, looking dizzied with a head that was obviously still throbbing. "He was in the room, talking to me," he defended, pressing a firm hand against his eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. "What else was I supposed to think of?"

"A million other things," Charles lectured. "You've gotten sloppy, I think. Relying too much on that ridiculous helmet."

"I could have used my helmet just now," Erik said. He dropped his hand from in front of his eyes and held it out. The helmet drifted to him.

"I hate that thing," Charles muttered, quite aware of how childish he sounded.

"I hate telepaths wreaking havoc inside my brain," Erik retorted. Out of a mutual respect between just the two of them, however, he did not put the helmet back on. Instead he allowed it to rest like a loaded weapon in his lap.

"Oh," Charles quipped, "but a moment ago you were so proud."

"Teach him control," Erik instructed. "Then I shall be most proud indeed." There was a small comfort in knowing that when he said that, he was speaking with the utmost sincerity. He would be proud, as Charles would be proud, if still for different and warring reasons.

"I'm not sure how unrefined his abilities are actually." Charles spoke slowly, more thinking aloud than making actual conversation. "He knew he had his powers, yet I haven't sensed him in anyone's heads. I think he knows where my mind is, has avoided me expertly." He nodded his head absently, arriving at a conclusion that felt obvious and undeniable. "He may know what he's doing."

"Then what was that?" Erik questioned, gesturing around the room.

Charles chuckled. It was mostly out of genuine mirth, but it also held a trickle of proud mockery. "Have you considered the option that he just doesn't like you?" he asked. "The big, bad man who attacked his father, his only friend, and the president all on television. He saw, Erik. He watched it with Pietro. But then," he hummed and presented a bittersweet smile, "that was what you wanted, wasn't it? To reach out to all mutants, all people?"

"I wasn't aware you were there at the time," Erik stated, but it was a cowardly and subject changing defense.

"Do not try to fool me— or yourself," Charles said, leveling the other with a look that judged and absolved. "You wore your helmet. Not to mention surely you must have known that wherever Hank and Logan were, wherever destruction and years of setbacks were occurring by your hands, that I couldn't have been far behind."

Erik said nothing, knowing he had not a single leg to stand on. But to apologize for his actions that day would have been out of character to him, not to mention a lie. "It's in the past now," he said.

"And yet," Charles replied, "a little boy seems to remember it very clearly."

"I would like to speak with him," Erik urged, "to set the record straight."

"Then I wish you luck," Charles said with a laugh. "Because, as you said, he is my son. And he sees the benefits of humanity and allying with them as well as I."

His continued push for coexistence seemed to offend Erik, raising small traces of ire to his composed face like bubbles in a pot of boiling water. "Even after you learned of that future?" he sneered.

"Especially after having learned about it," Charles affirmed, already hopeful that they had been set on a new path that evaded ruination. "But even if David were susceptible to your clever speeches, there is still the fact that you have no right to speak with him. Should I find you've gone behind my back," he warned, "I believe you will see in me a wrath most powerful."

"I am his father!" Erik exclaimed.

"You keep saying that so defensively," Charles remarked, sitting high in his judgment, "and yet you only learned the fact today. I suggest you take some time to evaluate the responsibility that comes with the position and get back to me."

"I'm unable to stay in one place for too long," he said. "It's not as though I can sleep on it and report my conclusions to you in the morning."

"And therein lies some of the problem, Erik," Charles explained, honestly wishing that it wasn't true. "You're nothing but an errant fugitive, blowing through by chance. Fathers are supposed to raise their children."

Erik chuckled cruelly, a quick sound that droned deep in his throat, finding his own amusement in the other's words. "Or of course," he taunted, "pass the responsibility off on their furry little assistant."

The displeasure in Charles was immediate, manifesting in a glare that he knew conveyed more grief than anger.

"I apologize." Erik's eyes fell at once in shame, but Charles cared not for his penance. He directed his chair across the room instead, waiting before the door. "That was out of line," Erik confessed, and his voice seemed to beg for a pardon that Charles wanted to deny him. He gave it anyway, through no more than a simple nod.

"I will send Pietro to you," he said, "as agreed. You will stay away from David, as told."

"He will surely ask after me," Erik reasoned, acknowledging the undeniable fact. "Now that he knows, he will."

"And I will take care of it," Charles replied with a sigh.

Erik spun in his seat, looking fully at him, his brow falling low and casting shade upon his eyes. "Don't bury it, Charles," he said, a plea that came growling with bared teeth. "Don't you bury me in his head. You say you're for fair play. He found out on his own. Don't make him forget that."

Charles wanted to laugh at the absurdity, to laugh about how quickly those with underhanded methods suspected the same from others. "I was simply going to talk with him," he told the man, assuaging fears that might have done him good to keep. "Don't give me ideas, especially not ones that sound so appealing."

"All I want is to know my son," he restated.

"Then be happy and not greedy in the one that you have access to," Charles tried to reason. "Does Pietro lose his appeal simply because you're more distracted by my saying 'no' about the other one?"

"Of course not," Erik refuted, shaking his head at such nonsense.

"Then know _him_ if you're so eager to be a father suddenly. And perhaps one day David will be old enough that he shows interest in you, doesn't want to crush your mind," Charles said, forcing a smile. "Until then, respect my wishes and stay away."

Erik paused, genuinely contemplating the matter, deep confliction quarrelling within.

"Very well," he agreed after a moment. "I am patient. I will wait."

"Good," Charles said, blowing out a great sigh of relief, feeling a substantial weight lifted. "Are there anymore matters we need to clear up before I call Pietro back?"

"I would like to accompany you on a visit to see the girl— Wanda," Erik answered, wasting not a second to put in his request.

"That I cannot allow," Charles said, sorry that it had to be the way of things.

"I would leave my helmet in the car," Erik vowed, "an act of good faith."

"But still remember the institution's location for future reference and escape attempts." He shook his head, imploring the other to understand his reasoning, his warranted trust issues. "No, Erik. Like David, this is simply one you shall have to wait for."

"You give me one child of three," he argued, his temper devolving into that of a sullen child.

"Then appreciate your one all the more dearly," Charles counseled him. He hesitated, knowing that when the conversation ended their time together would die soon after. That moment of solitary relief was the sweetest inevitability Charles had dreaded the promise of in a long while. "I'll go now," he said, "leave the room for you and Pietro."

"Charles."

Erik crossed the room in long strides, conquering the divide in little more than a second. He leaned over Charles, his intention obvious and screaming in his mind. Charles turned his head to the side, but Erik pursued. Surrender came quick after the forfeiture of denial. Strength of will was absent, passed over in a headcount, and Charles turned shamelessly back into it.

The kiss was the most tempting of dark promises, and Charles felt himself a younger man for having fallen to its corruption. A dozen years melted away. He felt his legs, he felt hope, felt passion. There was tenderness and there was love.

Then Erik pulled away, revealing his spell as illusion. He rested his forehead lightly against Charles's. The intimacy remained, but all else lay broken. Once more, Charles was forced to accept ignored facts. He was in a wheelchair, and there was a distance stretched between himself and Erik that no amount of steps or touches could close.

"I have truly missed that," Erik whispered, still enthralled by his fantasy or in denial of its collapse.

Charles himself dwelled long in silence, feeling the gentle touch of callused fingers worship him, appraise him like a fine work of art. "Yes," he agreed simply.

Erik nipped lightly at his lips, left soft kisses in the corners. "Perhaps after I've spoken with Pietro we could—"

"No."

Touch stopped, but the presence remained in one second of doubt, hoping vainly to have heard wrong. "I understand," he said, and there was a sincerity in his voice that reflected in his face when he pulled away.

He stood. Charles backed away, further approaching the door. Erik opened it for him.

"Leave the helmet off," Charles told him. "You look far more approachable without it."

"Anymore recommendations?" Erik asked.

He looked genuinely eager for it, and Charles could not deny him what he had. "Don't pause when you have trouble getting something out," he cautioned Erik. "He has a hard enough time paying attention as it is. When people slow down even further, they lose him completely. Just spit it out and talk things through."

"Noted," the man replied, seeming to take the advice to heart.

"Erik," Charles said, "I really do wish you luck. He may not be understanding. Remain patient."

He nodded, and Charles put his hand to his head.

Pietro took slightly longer to appear that time. But even dragging his feet, the boy still managed to show up in under five seconds. He was, thankfully, alone.

"Still here, huh?" he questioned, looking at Erik.

"Yes, uh," Erik faltered, clearing his throat, "I'm still here."

Charles moved his chair closer to Pietro. "Erik would like to speak with you," he said, gesturing at the man, "if that's all right."

Pietro shrugged. "Ain't joining no evil organization," he told them.

"That's not what this is about," Charles said, though he would have been blind to miss the look in Erik's eye that said it still very much could be. "Right, Erik?"

"Of course," the man agreed, and Charles hoped he wasn't lying.

"I'll leave you to it," he said, putting the matter in Erik's hands. "I believe I have much to discuss with David."

"Boy, I'll say," Pietro confirmed. He tagged on a whistle at the end to convey his own surprise in the matter, and it made Charles grimace further. He could only imagine how David was reacting to the news.

"Erik," he urged with a sigh, "don't leave when you're done here. I'd like to escort you out so that no one is startled." Erik nodded his head, and Charles hoped he could depend on that as a trustworthy answer. "All right then." He directed his chair out of the room, not looking back, despite temptation.

Erik shut the door, and when he turned around, Pietro had disappeared. Instead the boy was sitting in one of the chairs by Charles's desk, propping his feet up on the surface. Erik felt a need to scold him, yell at the boy for his disrespect, but he ignored the impulse. His shoes didn't look that dirty anyway— worn down and smoothed, yes, but not dirty.

"Your speed is very impressive," he spoke, flattering the other.

"Yeah," Pietro replied smugly, "you should tell me something I don't know."

Pausing only for a second, Erik took a breath. Then he went straight for Charles's 'quick to the point' strategy.

"Well, for starters, I'm your father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mention of Wanda in an institution is something I took from the X-Men: Evolution plot with her. I know they most likely didn't include her in the movie because there simply wasn't enough time to get into her character and all, but this is my own excuse. I think it's better than continuing to ignore her altogether. Not that I'm giving her a big role either… I'd like to. Can't I just write about their children forever? That sounds nice.


	3. Repeat the Process but Change the Variables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to remain a brief epilogue instead of a full third chapter, but it got away from me. No big deal. Sometimes it's nice to have longer works.

_Four Months Later_

—

The twisting of the door handle was almost as quiet as could be. It rattled only a little, a clink of metal tumblers that must have been either incidental or a question of permission.

Charles situated his bookmark very gently between the pages he was reading, tucking it in for the night. Then he placed the book upon his nightstand and waited.

As though the outside presence had been anticipating and watching, the french doors to his balcony drifted apart, slow and quiet— a magnificent contrast to Erik's usual method of operation.

The man himself appeared within seconds, gently dropping upon the stone of the balcony and framed by the doorway. He wore his helmet, which was ridiculous in its superfluousness yet not as much so as the costume. Deep and lifeless colors it housed, a promise that no mercy nor compassion was to be found in the man beneath them, not unless he wished it.

Erik closed the door behind himself in a way that felt presumptuous. Walking the short miles of the room, he seemed anxious already to divest himself of cape and other articles. He removed only his helmet.

"I don't need my powers to know why you are here, Erik."

"Good evening, Charles," came the calm reply. The three innocent words hid in speech under the guise of a greeting, but they were so much more. A question, a plea, a confession. Charles broke them apart on every level.

"Good evening, Erik."

It was his consent.

There was nothing rushed or passed over between them. Passion was muted in its tenderness. Desire burned and overflowed through no more than a soft touch. Erik held him as though he might break, a delicate china doll that should have only ever been sat upon the shelf and never played with. Charles took comfort, not offense, from his treatment, reveling in the feel that Erik knew he shouldn't touch, shouldn't play, but could not stop himself.

They knew what consequences were and the actions that caused them. Then they ignored both with a clinging desperation.

Though absent in words, they each voiced upon the other with no more than the flit of an eye a wordless discussion of what may come, what they wanted and feared in equal measure.

Motive was a tricky, unasked, and ignored thing, diluted further in its reasoning when shared between two minds. Maybe Erik wanted a registered blip of involvement. Perhaps Charles was looking for a second chance, to prove himself and try again where he had fallen short before. But he could not and would not confess to his own reasoning, for to admit to such a possibility would be to label David as a failure, and on that path of thought there laid nothing but guilt and self-loathing.

Charles would have sounded arrogant to say he knew that same night. And he didn't, of course, but for the sense of deep foreboding within him, an ambivalence of hope mixed with despair.

Erik stayed the night but left the next morning, allowing only enough time to meet with and speak to Pietro— an arrangement that stood in place only because the boy's distaste for him was overcome by youthful intrigue. Charles understood his confliction better than anyone.

It was five months before Erik returned, again during the night, perhaps indeed mindful of the effect he could have on the children. With him came the near palpable sensation of curiosity, an unseen embodiment that lurked behind, that lifted his shoulders higher.

Charles forwent the man having to ask and rolled back the blankets, revealing the answer that lay beneath. Erik's expression was one first of joy, excitement, a swelling of pride and love. Then he crumbled upon himself, an ill built tower whose demolished rubble left naught but traces of its former glory, a field of debris and fear.

"I expect nothing from you, my friend," Charles told him, and there was a sad, resigned smile on his face. "Time has long since passed for us to do wholly right by the other. You are stuck on your path and I on mine."

Erik silently doffed his attire until nothing remained but the comfortable underclothes. He climbed unto the bed and Charles welcomed him with open arms, consoling him as a parent might their child after bad dreams.

They remained there, silent for most of the night. Charles petted his hair with unmasked affection, and Erik kept a firm hand upon his stomach, both of them at times.

"Set in our paths, you say?" Erik questioned of him.

Charles nodded, a slight movement that was barely more than a blink of his eyes. "I believe two men can only change one future so much," he replied. There was a disheartened relief in his tone. To himself, the resolution felt as though he had been pushing a large rock uphill, only to finally surrender and let the momentum of unstoppable force at last take it away from him. "Though, along with what we've altered thus far, I think perhaps she is already a new addition to the future."

"She?"

Erik was absent when she was born. It would have been a fallacy to ever want or expect anything else. Charles was not so cruel to himself that he waited for him to enter, brandishing arrogance and metal to any who stood in his way.

To anticipate such a spectacle would have been folly. Logic ruled he shouldn't. And yet logic had no place in the heart, no corner in which it was welcomed, and Charles found he could not ignore the faint disappointment that followed. However, and just as obvious, he knew he could not and should not dwell. It was inadvisable where Erik was concerned.

Making a decision that he hoped wouldn't backfire in any way, Charles relinquished naming rights to her older brothers in an attempt to let them feel involved. David was thrilled for the opportunity, but Pietro adopted a distasteful look that he had kept almost the entire duration— for show, of course, as Charles gleaned from his mind.

Erik met Lorna when she was three-months-old. By that time, tufts of hair had grown upon her head, and their green hue put to bed any fears Erik might have harbored before they even awoke.

So loving was he, so abundant was his adoration, that he didn't leave Charles's bedroom for a week, hiding from students and hoarding his daughter. He questioned her name, thinking it an oddity to have come from Charles's mind, but was much more receptive after learning the source.

To keep David from Erik seemed pointless by then. The man had little chance of winning or polluting his mind. And of course, once David understood that his new sister was indeed his full sibling, he exhibited a fixation upon the man that Charles could not quell nor contain.

Erik was officially introduced to David when the boy was twelve and Wanda when she was eighteen.

Charles was endlessly relieved by the calm, mature conversations that could manage to take place in a room of four children regularly abandoned by their father. Granted, one was an infant, but she kept a respectable silence all the same.

It told on the unique temperament of each child that they didn't seem to blame Erik for his absence. They could converse with him or disagree with him— outright condemning his practices— but there was always an understanding of facts when he left. No one begged him to stay, just as no one expected him to do so of his own, uncoerced will.

Charles took his own sadness from that, but he often wondered if Erik did as well, if perhaps the man wanted just one moment of assurance that someone mourned his departures. But, as he confessed late one night in a darkened room amid soft sheets, there were Charles's children, not his. Even the older ones knew and embraced their place in the manor at his side.

Again Charles told him that they could not change what had happened, what was happening, or what would happen. Erik was sullen at the words that sounded like a judgment of weakness, but Charles was adamant that he could not want both goals to the same degree. One had to win, and neither man deceived himself with which it would be.

When she was two-years-old, Lorna cried as Erik said goodbye. He was so uncharacteristically weakened by the sight that he stayed the rest of the day, tucking her into bed. Then, once she was asleep and unable to miss him, Erik left. He must have thought the tactic a kindness, but Charles knew it for its cruelty, knew the heartbreak that would come with the morning.

It was the first time in a long while that the thought of denying Erik his open welcome crept into Charles's mind.

When David became of driving age, no one seemed good enough to teach him except a father who could move other cars out of the way, allowing him a certain recklessness. Erik stayed for more than a week, showing him the finer points and indulging the boy with small displays of power. But when it came time for his test, David held out as long as any young man could before finally letting Pietro take him in their father's place.

Charles tried comforting him by saying that Erik wouldn't have done well in a federal building anyway. His words were a mediocre bandage against betrayal, though, and the sight of it stung, even with David's assurance that he didn't care.

Erik did at least have the surprising decency to look ashamed when he showed up more than a month later. Charles met him alone, and they shared a conversation that incited a wrath long hidden from his eyes.

The bedroom was in a shambles when Erik left. Any trace of metal had been purposefully bent beyond practical repair. Not even his wheelchair was granted immunity.

Charles had given him an ultimatum, but as they both knew the likelihood of him changing his course by then, Erik had taken it as a cruel ruling.

They fell out of all contact immediately. Anything Charles ever heard regarding Erik's whereabouts, or even a confirmation to his health, came from newspapers or the television. It was a horrible, biased source that reported only the bad— as was its duty— and eventually Charles could take it no longer, abandoning that method of keeping tabs.

It was five years before Charles initiated contact, five years before he had a reason that dwelled beyond the realm of indulgent selfishness and yearning.

Not long after Lorna turned nine, she gradually began summoning a ring of metal that floated about herself, adding layer upon layer of oddities from the manor: a spoon, a coin, someone's pen. Charles tried to teach her calm control, but she became frustrated easily, scared as any young girl could be thought to be. Even living amongst mutants her entire life had not prepared her for the idea of her own uncontrollable powers.

If serenity was a wall for control, she had nothing else with which to brace it. To Erik, rage had granted raw power, but Lorna's somewhat charmed life thus far had given her an ill means of balance. It was not the control she lacked, merely the strength to be controlled. What was there acted without her consent.

The matter caused in her a depression, most sad to see in one so young. Students would make jokes over the orbit of metal around her, thinking it all in good fun. Eventually she stopped leaving her room. Not even the commencement of summer vacation and departure of a great percentage of students could bring her back out.

The effect it had on Charles was a special sort of desperation that only a parent could know. It gave him the prideless strength to quickly dissolve old grudges and demands. He pulled out an address to a P.O. box that he pretended he hadn't actually memorized years ago.

It took eight days for Erik to show. With the included delay for the letter to run its course and for the mailbox to be checked, Charles had not a doubt in his mind that the man had come straight away.

Charles took no offense when words of greeting or awkward pleasantries were ignored. When he arrived, Erik's eyes were only for his daughter.

Lorna had kept only one vague memory of him with nothing to support it but the occasional discussion from her siblings. Even that had become a dying occurrence with the twins away and David at college. She had no original thought in her head on how to consider the man before her. But when he waved his hand and the metal around her dropped, she latched to him like a lifeline, hugging him in a tight embrace she could not resist.

Charles perceived in Erik a love at once rekindled and enhanced. Lorna may have been raised in the manor, she may have been 'Charles's child', but that display of magnetic power created an immediate and prideful bond in him.

He and Erik did not share a bedroom for the duration of his stay. Charles wasn't sure whose idea it was or if either of them had even voiced it, but Erik remained in one of the empty rooms, of which there was an abundance in the summer months. All conversation between them seemed shallow, never delving beneath the surface of standard small talk between old friends. Charles knew that on his own end it was caused by a sense of regret and guilt. However, Erik— whose mind Charles would not invade even without his helmet— could have been held back by anything from awkwardness to passive aggression.

Instead Charles took a separate joy in watching him with Lorna. They were always together, morning, noon, and night. The two of them would find unoccupied rooms or walk the grounds in deep discussions that Charles hoped Erik managed to keep on a nine-year-old's level.

It had been so many years since their original breakthrough of true control. Charles did not doubt that in all that time Erik had developed new methods. The man had levitated an entire stadium and transported it, for goodness sake. Whatever it was he had found must have worked for Lorna because she slowly took hold of her abilities.

It was good to see her smile again, and most amusing to watch a game of chess between two opponents who never need touch the metal pieces.

Erik's time at the school must have ticked away faster than he thought, though Charles kept track of every day. It was close to the end of a month when a knock rapped twice upon the door of Charles's study. He bade the person to enter, and it was more surprising to see Erik approach him at all than it was the fact that he was wearing his helmet.

"Erik," Charles observed, "you come with ill intent." He finished the sentence he had been reading in his paperwork before turning his full attention to the other. His power over Erik's mind was not necessary in knowing the purpose of the visit. Simple and succinct, he told him, "You can't have her."

"She wants to go," Erik informed him. Though outward appearances of cold and stone were able to fool others, Charles could see the reluctance in his eyes. It was always there when Erik's own greed warred with his knowledge on how it would affect Charles.

"Yes," Charles agreed, not doubting it as truth, "but she's nine. She also wants a tea set and a pony."

"I can help her in ways you can't," Erik continued. Of the two of them, it was obvious which one he was trying to convince with his words and it wasn't Charles.

There was little hum of amusement in reply to that claim as Charles gave his head a dismissive shake. "You can help her become a weapon," he clarified, "a soldier. Don't dress up unpleasant facts, old friend. You've no place for children in the life you lead."

"It's what's best for her."

Charles could have laughed at the stretched logic behind such an assertion, but there was far more woe to be found in it than mirth. "If you truly believe that," he said, word for word imbedded with the resolve of what he was about to say, "then I no longer regret my choice to distance you from the children."

"Think what you want, Charles, but a future without bloodshed is nothing but a dream." Though Erik may have respected Charles— and, yes, even his choices— there was never a want for arrogance in his avowal of inevitable war. "You will leave our kind unprepared for their own destruction."

"You can't have her," Charles maintained. Of any arguing that would commence, it was a point from which he would never budge.

"I'll not let you risk my daughter's life on an ideal of pacifism and cohabitation," Erik spat.

"She will receive training here," Charles tried to reason. "We may not always be preparing for war, but we do believe in mastering our powers."

Erik did not withdraw from his pride, but he did change tactics, retaking his former ground and quarrel. "It's what she wants."

"It doesn't work that way, Erik." Charles gave him a smile, but it was a tainted little thing, soaking with sorrow. "It shouldn't. She doesn't know what it is she's asking for. All Lorna thinks is that she'll get to spend more time with her father."

"She would," Erik defended.

"Oh, yes," Charles quipped with a tired sigh. "I can imagine the situations you would drag her into, the unstable living conditions. You are not so foolish," he scolded, disappointed with the other's logic, grasping and desperate as he knew that it was. "Don't be blinded by how desperately you crave one child's love. You know this isn't right. You're not thinking clearly."

And then Erik did stop. He had been fooling himself, and they both knew it. Charles only wished he could be around more often to call the man on his bluffs before they were made. Life, and many things within it, would have been so much easier.

"She'll be upset with me," Erik uttered in his surrender.

"Tell her it's my fault," Charles offered. It felt like the least he could do. "She can only stay mad at me for so long."

Erik shook his head. "That hardly seems fair."

Charles smiled then, genuine and warm and an overall refreshing sensation to feel. That Erik could care— that he did care— over so small a thing was knowledge he truly welcomed. "I'm her father," he reasoned. "Quite often must I play the role of the villain. But you…" Charles tried speaking through the grin on his face, but took pause when it grew too wide to talk around. "In the past couple of weeks, you've become a hero in her eyes." It had been a most heartwarming display to watch, tainted only by the bittersweet knowledge of its inevitable end. "I have greatly enjoyed the sight, my friend. Thank you."

"I thought you were angry," Erik admitted, "suspicious of the idea of me turning her against you."

"You're projecting, Erik. It has _never_ been my desire to drive a wedge between you and the children," he stressed. "You did that all your own."

"I believe I had some help, didn't I?" Erik argued. His brow sunk low beneath the rim of his helmet, casting shadow and dark lines against his eyes. "A keep out sign, as it were."

"You only saw it that way," Charles said. "All I have ever wanted was what I've seen this month: you, here, teaching and loving."

Erik sneered, a cruel and mocking expression. "Caged and obedient," he corrected.

"A father."

That brought the conversation to a halt, like dumping a bucket of water upon a hot flame. Steam mixed with smoke, then arose and dissipated. "You raise them, Charles," Erik told him, and it sounded every bit like an order, as if Charles was being charged with a grand responsibility in which failure was not an option. "That's your job. I will shoulder the burden of making a world safe for them."

"A world that will _fear_ them," Charles objected, finding himself outraged by Erik's vision for their children.

"All the better," Erik said, and he made it sound as though such a standing must truly be the way of it. "When I'm done, a new order will be my gift to them, a place where they may live free, without blood on their hands."

Charles slapped an open palm against the wood of his desk. "Don't raise them on your banner, Erik," he told him, reprimanded him. "They wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. You do this for you."

Erik shook his head purposefully. His presence turned imposing and he seemed immense in his frustration. "What I do is for all of us," he insisted.

"Stop," Charles said, holding a hand up.

"Why?"

"Because we have fallen into old routine, my friend." There was a sob in Charles's throat that used the cover of a false smile to disguise itself as a slight and humming laugh. "For your sake," he uttered sadly, "I will have this argument as many times as I can stand it, but this new twist of involving the children I cannot allow."

Erik descended from his arrogance, shrinking to the form of a man. It was in Charles's favor that no matter what transpired between them, he would always be able to pluck the hot coals from Erik's fury and set them out to wither for a time.

"They are my biggest motivation," he admitted, and suddenly it seemed like a shameful confession instead of a battle cry.

"Then I must ask you to keep that close to yourself," Charles pleaded. "I cannot take away what drives you, but if they knew…" He shook his head, shuddering at the mere idea of such a revelation made known. "Bloodshed in their name is a cruel gift, Erik."

Silence stretched for a small eternity, taking up space in the room with its heavy nothingness, choking the air itself. Erik kept his gaze locked with Charles in a battle of determination. To back down was to fall, and falling was to admit to being in the wrong. Therefore, it took some time and a loss of pride for Erik to relent with a slight and sluggish nod, conceding once more, as he had with the idea of taking Lorna. He didn't know it— and that alone was a tragedy— but the simple compromise made Erik a magnificent father in Charles's eyes.

"I'll leave now," the man said, and he bowed his head to go.

Charles called him back before he made it to the door. "Will you say goodbye to Lorna?" he asked, for her sake.

"It's better if I don't," Erik said, convinced it was the truth.

"You really are the most idiotic father, aren't you?" Erik looked most offended by the insinuation, but he dropped his anger in a hurry when he saw the smile on Charles's face, when he heard his bubbling laugh. "Say goodbye," he begged. "She will be sad, yes, and angry, but it is the far better choice. I promise."

Again Erik nodded his head, succumbing to Charles and his requests, and again he turned to go.

"Erik." He looked back over his shoulder but turned no further, feeling his nice shoes pressed too far already from spinning back and forth upon the rug. "Don't be a stranger."

"What," he smirked, weighing a callous response against one of bliss, "no more demands that I stay away?"

"No."

Then Erik did turn about, and Charles was fixed with such a stare that it would have had a weaker man on edge. The simple glance reached with groping fingers, prying for what could be taken from an expression alone, probing with the intensity of a telepath. If he searched for untruth in his tentative hope, he did not find it in Charles.

"Come as often as you like," he told Erik. "I ask only that you wipe the blood off your hands first, and that you leave bigotry and empty promises at the door."

"I will consider it," Erik commented, and to him the price seemed at once low and impossibly high.

"Please do," Charles urged.

Erik stood, his exit thoroughly ruined by that point, as if leaving then would be likened to a retreat. The longer he remained, the more it seemed that something was on his mind but not his lips, lacking courage to come forth. Charles would have had him on the edge of speech for hours if it delayed his leaving.

A difference of opinion felt like Hell misplaced on Earth. For all its simplicity, surely there could be no crueler torture. It was a device they had given themselves, and its true sting lay in the knowledge that either of them could end it at any time. It was torment and it was born from knowing that it wasn't something being done to them, an unjust act from which they could rightly beg relief. They did it to themselves and each other, making them at once a victim and a villain. And in all their pain, there remained but one reprieve, and it was a kindness in its consistency.

"I love you, Erik."

"I love you, Charles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bittersweet endings are the best.
> 
> While I was writing this, I got the funny image in my head that Logan wakes up in the altered future and there's this green-haired woman walking around who's all kinds of hot. And then he finds out who she is. Quickly. And painfully.
> 
> I feel like such a bad story teller for not addressing the progress of Charles and David's relationship more in this. But each chapter kind of had a very specific purpose. Oh well. I suck. There really wasn't much else for me to say though. Charles never really gets back what he missed out on. Because perfect endings and general happiness aren't my thing. So even though he refuses to admit it to himself, that is why he wanted a second child. Is it sort of selfish and horrible? Yes, but I'm not saying that Charles ever really gives up trying to be a good father to David either. Lorna was more or less a foolish attempt to turn back time and try again.
> 
> Goodness, somebody shut me up already.


End file.
